


For Your Own Good

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Desperate Intervention, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John Figures out Sherlock's Secrets, M/M, Pseudo-Kidnapping, Sensory impairment, Sherlock Has Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-09 22:37:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15277680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: Something seems wrong with Sherlock. A bit of observation helps John figure it out, but unfortunately Sherlock refuses any help. Finding intervention necessary, John sets a plan in motion.++A set of hands grab Sherlock, upper body, a gloved hand over Sherlock’s mouth, another pair of hands over his eyes, arms held fast.Steady, gently, John nearly hisses, but can see that all is well. From in front of them, a car rapidly approaches, cuts in and stops, and Sherlock, struggling, is shoved into the car. One of them produces a hood, tucks it over Sherlock’s head. Hands are loosely cuffed behind his back.John doesn't do anything by half.





	For Your Own Good

"You turned them down?" John can hardly believe what he thinks he may have heard, wonders what he is missing. Concert tickets, one of Sherlock's favourite performances, small venue, close seats, freely offered, they are actually available that evening - and surprisingly declined. "Why?"

With an agitated roll of his eyes, Sherlock harrumphs, turns on his heel, leaves the room without ever answering John's question out loud. There is a stomping of diminishing footsteps retreating down the steps and a moment later the front door slams.

Why would he do that?

It takes John a few minutes of reflection for some of the possibilities to slip into place. By the time Sherlock returns home, John can only think of a few things serious enough to explain that motivation, and wonders at why he might have turned down the opportunity. And armed with suspicions and taught by a master, years of living with Sherlock, he begins to pay more attention. To both see and observe.

++

Sherlock’s steps, with longer stride, continue to outpace John’s, but John keeps up because he has to. Because he knows, now more than ever given his suspicion, his presence is even more critical, more necessary, more illuminating. He hustles just a bit, their jaunt to the shops for an irrelevant errand, not entirely a set-up, the shortage of something Sherlock wanted to eat. A quick text before they left, pre-arrangements paying off. John sees in his distant peripheral vision a couple of carefully attentive strangers paying them close mind. One of them makes subtle eye contact, nods very slightly, and John returns it when he is absolutely certain Sherlock isn’t looking.

The strangers fall into a comfortable distance behind them, and John can feel the anxiety in his gut.

It will soon be showtime. Time to prove the point, in a way that Sherlock will not be able to evade, avoid, or otherwise escape. At least, not without directly confronting it first.

++

John observed. Little things over the past few weeks, much longer if John is being completely honest. More frequently a request to repeat himself, speak again. Deferring answering a phone call to John or not at all. Not paying attention. More easily frustrated, though this by itself would obviously be nothing unusual. Asking John to take care of something. At first, John thought it was simply excess background noise or inattention, distraction, or maybe even - hopefully - a simple head cold. He tried a few different environments, paid closer attention, watched with a more intentional focus.

John saw. Sherlock chose conversation locations where he could control some of those environmental elements, he sat with his back to the wall so he had a greater vantage point of the room, could see if someone was speaking to him. He leaned closer to people, angled his ear, at times pressed his finger over the ear farther away in an attempt to amplify sounds. He would occasionally tuck his head closer to John, ask a clarifying question, trying to throw off the truth, diverting attention whenever he could. When previously at a restaurant he would listen to and be interested in the specials, recently he does not even wish to have them recited. He'd been playing the violin less, and when he did practice, his frustration was evident and the session short-lived.

Sherlock watched a person speaking with a different intensity. Specifically he watched their mouths. John watched Sherlock watching. Once he was clued in to it, the behaviour was rather obvious.

The clincher though, what had spurred John to address this sooner as opposed to later, had been last week, when they'd been walking, hustling to cross a street when an out of control, yellow-light running vehicle had clipped a corner too close as it careened up behind them, the noise completely unnoticed by Sherlock. It had only been John's quick reaction, a jerk of his arm to pull Sherlock out of the danger zone that prevented Sherlock being clipped by the cars bumper.

So just the other day, a clarification at home, an assessment. A test. John - at the stove - spoke out loud in the flat, the kitchen quiet, no street noise, but his back to Sherlock who was at the table. No response. None.

He repeated it, clearly and perhaps slightly louder. A quick glance over his shoulder to assure he was seated. Still nothing.

Turning around, the activity caught Sherlock’s attention, and John spoke again, the same sentence, but watched Sherlock’s eyes. “I was thinking we’d go to Mycroft’s on Saturday, drop off his birthday gift.”

Sherlock’s eyes were riveted on John’s lips. "Fine."

He spoke again, this time leaving out any actual spoken words or sound producing noise, instead forming the words with his mouth, silently moving his lips.  _Did you wrap the book yet?_  No sound, not a one.

“Of course not. You always do that.”

_It’s your turn. I already take care of too much for you, you lazy wanker._

Sherlock stretched, his arms long over his head, triumphant. “Gift bag it is, then.” He grinned over at John, thankfully - in John’s opinion - not aware that he’d just been set up, failed the test.

“You know,” John continued, speaking aloud again. “Terrible cold going around, saw a real spike in cases this week, lot of people complaining of sinus pain, ears, congestion.” To further validate his data, he opted for not producing any sound again, moving his lips to say, _I’m surprised neither of us caught anything yet._

“Probably because you’re such a germaphobe, then, and wash your hands so often, as you ought. I certainly don’t enjoy the thought of you bringing home something boring and mundane. Now if you find a patient with something tropical or unusual, I may be more interested. Plague. Ebola.”

John opted not to address the easily-treated nature of plague with antibiotic therapy nor the absolute insane danger of anything related to untreatable, often fatal Ebolavirus. “You’re not ill, right? Nothing going on, head cold, sinuses full, anything?”

“I swear, John, first sign of a sniffle, I shall make myself an appointment with one of your medical partners, just to see you sweat when I’m behind closed doors with them, saying who knows what.”

“Because you hesitate so often speaking your mind at any given time on any other day.” John had hedged. "You know, it almost... You're sure your ears are okay? Seems perhaps they may be a little blocked."

"I'm fine."

"I think you should --"

"No." His abrupt answer was not quite deserved, the snappiness and vehemence out of proportion to the situation.

"It seems you don't --"

 _"No."_ His voice was menacing.

"Have you not noticed --?"

"I notice everything. Including the fact that you're nagging me, and you need to stop. Immediately. I said no." There was a glare, a threat of temper and a subject about to be permanently closed given the serious expression, the glint of veiled fury behind Sherlock's eyes. He meant it. John wanted to protest, met Sherlock's eyes as if to plead his case. " _Stop_ ," he repeated, the p sound clicking and loud as Sherlock spoke.

John did, figuratively biting at his tongue and making a face back at his flatmate, his partner. "If you're sure. Final answer?"

"I do believe I answered that." Conversation closed. "I have another idea though, for my brother's birthday." He'd explained what he had in mind, an obnoxious practical joke involving food that would ultimately include presenting him with a certificate for use at his favourite eatery. Adding a bit to the ruse, John approved, and they shared an easy laugh despite the earlier almost confrontation. "An expired one at first."

"Cruel."

"Exactly."

"If he notices."

"He will. I'll have a real one at hand, though, after I've annoyed him enough first." The grin Sherlock had smiled back at John was the happy, crooked one that John had always loved, where the left side of his mouth was just a little wider than the right. It was boyish and devilish and adorable.

John turned back to the sink, his mind on the earlier part of the conversation rather than his plans to aggravate his brother. He was impressed yet again with Sherlock. It should have been no real surprise that Sherlock Holmes would continue to learn new tricks and skills. Apparently, he reads lips. Fluently.

++

The steps behind John and Sherlock grow closer, and John can’t help but be curious at what Sherlock’s reaction will be. The street crowd thins out a bit as they walk, and John leads them down a deserted block by design, and the encroaching steps suddenly pick up and are, just given the narrowness of the alley, the acoustics, louder. Sherlock doesn't notice. Not at all, as they near the far end of the alley where it will open up into another street, now blatant footsteps behind them close in suddenly. A set of hands grab Sherlock, upper body, a gloved hand over Sherlock’s mouth, another pair of hands over his eyes, arms held fast. _Steady,_ John nearly hisses. All proceed gently. Carefully. Cautioned against force beyond what was minimally necessary and keeping it least restrictive. From in front of them, a car rapidly approaches, cuts in and stops, and Sherlock, struggling, is shoved into the car. One of them produces a hood, tucks it over Sherlock’s head. Hands are loosely cuffed behind his back.

John enters of his own free will, nodding at his “captors” and keeping his body silent in the back of the car as if subdued. He thinks about protesting but is fairly certain that Sherlock won’t be able to hear it anyway. Not much longer now, and the truth will be out.

“Let me go,” Sherlock snarls, twisting suddenly, his legs lunging out, narrowly missing John’s knee. The man holding his shoulder, protectively, keeping him from hurting himself, moves his hand, lest he be in danger of being bitten even through the thin fabric hood. John watches carefully, sensing that Sherlock is nowhere near panicking and instead is biding his time, and above all, trying to think his way out of his predicament. There is no laboured breathing, the skin of his hands is dry, pink, his body movements now more calculating, calmer. John watches for distress and is prepared to abort the plan at any moment if it seems too much or something is amiss. John is ready to intervene, to help if necessary.

++

"So that's all you need? Two to take, a driver, transport to the building."

"Help inside, then you can leave."

"And if he gets out of hand...?"

"Yes, I'll be there to help." Silence. Consideration. "Or to call it off if things go sour. No one will get hurt."

"How much again?"

John tells him the price. He reminds himself that he tried to talk with Sherlock, reason with him, more than the once in the kitchen. Sherlock was having no part of it, and this would bring it to a head for sure. Drastic times, drastic measures, he assures himself. _Needs must._

"Deal."

++

The car makes the quick trip, as John had planned, stops at the medical office building. John exits quickly, leaves Sherlock's handling to those in the vehicle, and enters the side door. A ground floor conference room has been cleared for them, as John has no desire to make this any more of a spectacle. John follows Sherlock inside and is already seated when Sherlock is pushed into a chair, then there is a moment of silence, a pause.

From within the hood, Sherlock’s head straightens, angling, sniffing perhaps. "What do you want?" he growls. John has no desire to draw this out unnecessarily, reaches out an arm, snaps off the hood.

Sherlock blinks a couple of times at the intrusion of the overhead lights, his head spinning as he quickly ascertains the threat level in the room, the presence of other people. His bright eyes land confusedly on John, and, seeing that he is unrestrained, he is none too pleased.

“What the hell, John?”

“I could say the same back to you.” John stands, retrieves a handcuff key from his pocket, and approaches Sherlock to unlock his bound hands. To the men who had done exactly as he asked, he nods. "Thanks. That will be all." He has already handed one of them an envelope, payment.

The room is quiet and oppressive as John and Sherlock find themselves alone. “Who were they?" Sherlock asks.

"Hired muscle. That's all."

"What was this all about?” John takes Sherlock's wrist, inspects his skin integrity, rubs at the faint ridges, than does the same to the other one before Sherlock angrily snaps out of his grip, still glaring.

John raises one eyebrow, waiting for Sherlock to figure it out, wondering if he will ultimately confess to his hearing loss or if John will have to be the one to bring it to the table. He waits.

“John,” he presses, bringing his hands in front of him again, still rubbing faintly where the metal had bitten into his skin. “What was the point of that?”

Enjoying the power dynamic of being standing while Sherlock is seated, John stays standing, crosses his arms in front of him. “The point of that, Sherlock, you tell me. What just happened?”

“We got jumped, I did rather. Or so it seemed."

“You’re a danger to yourself, Sherlock.”

“I’m going to be a danger to _you_ , John, unless you tell me immediately what you're going on about.”

"I'm proving a point, for your own good." He makes sure to speak clearly, slowly. "You're vulnerable."

Sherlock nearly snarls his displeasure. "And you're ridiculous."

“The point, mate, was that two people approached you from behind, not particularly quiet, managed to sneak up on you without you noticing, quite easily overpowered you --”

“While you did nothing, I may add,” he snarks back. “You set me up,” he realises. "You bloody wanker."

"Extreme, yes, I know."

"Beyond reasonable."

"Would anything less have actually got your attention?" Sherlock scowls without responding, so John continues once he'd looked up at him again. “I did set you up, yes, but you are putting yourself at risk, and I did this to get your attention.”

"That you're cruel and unfair."

"No." John checks his watch. "That I'm concerned for your welfare if you don't do something."

"You should be concerned for your own bloody welfare." Standing quickly, Sherlock shrugs his coat back into place. "Now, if you're done with your little game..."

"Fine, you can leave. Right after your appointment."

"Appointment." John can see Sherlock's jaws clench in annoyance. "Is there an appointment required to smack you, perhaps?"

"Upstairs. We're in the medical office building by Bart's, you know. And we are just in time for your appointment with Dr. Spiegel." Sherlock's face seems to get even more angry. "He's the lead otolaryngologist in the area." John is careful to speak slowly and gently, his expression compassionate.

"I don't have a problem."

John knows denial is normal, and expects more of it. "You compromised your safety when you couldn't react appropriately to your surroundings."

"It's your job to help me. You did nothing!"

"What if this was real, and I wasn't there?"

"I don't have a need." Sherlock watches John tuck the handcuffs into his jacket pocket. The hood is folded and slides neatly into his inner vest pocket. "I'm managing just fine." The argument is weak and they are both aware.

"Next time it could be people who intend you harm. What if it _had_ been real?"

"It wasn't."

"It is not my fault everyone mumbles." He gives up that angle. "There was background noise, too much --"

"Actually, the block was fairly empty. But that's not the problem and you know it." John worries a bit at his lip. "I tried to ask you, at home, to tell you --"

Sherlock interrupts. "I'm fine."

John takes a moment, explains what happened in the flat last week, when he did his own small experiment, had spoken without making a sound, that he knows Sherlock reads lips, that the game, his game of pretense, is over.

Sherlock's cheeks colour. There is a charged moment, of realisation, of the gravity of what John is trying to impress on him. "I am not wearing hearing aids."

"No one is saying --"

"No, you're not listening," and he breaks off, hearing his own word choice. "John, I can't ..."

"You haven't even been examined yet," John offers tentatively. "And there might be other explanations ..."

There is a small catch, a choppy swallow, and John can both see and sense the upset in all of Sherlock's being. "Don't make me ..." he begins and then the words trail off.

John sees the pain and upset on his face and wants to reassure him. "Maybe you have --"

"No."

"Okay," John breathes, knowing his eyes are wide and that he is navigating thin ice. "You don't have to. I can cancel your appointment." He lays a hand on Sherlock's sternum, leaves his palm flat and warm against him.

Sherlock's lips purse around an O sound, and the slow, deliberate exhale he gives is shaky. "Right. Okay." There is a nod of relief when he thinks he has won.

"And then we can call Greg from home." John eyes him up, challenging him to figure out what he is hinting at.

There is a wary look about Sherlock's eyes, a fear now. "What for?"

"To tell him, obviously, that active crime scenes are not safe for you, whether I'm there or not." Trying hard to maintain a nonchalant tone, John shrugs and places a hand on the doorknob that leads from the conference room. "He needs to know." John doesn't bring to the conversation that even a simple task of speaking on the mobile, a telephone call, would prove challenging to Sherlock in all likelihood.

"You can't be serious."

"And you can't possibly think it's okay that an in-progress scene would be safe for someone who can't hear." 

"I can hear some. Lower register." John makes a skeptical face. "Sometimes." Another disbelieving expression. "At least I --"

"Guess we'll never know, will we."

"It's not your decision."

"You do realise law enforcement, investigating, requires the ability to be able to communicate quickly and easily in an emergency situation."

There is no counter to that bit of logic, of policy. Sherlock keeps his eyes on John's face and his mouth stubbornly closed.

"You can't jeopardise your health, your life, for your safety. And possibly that of the team who is depending on team members, including you." John zips up his coat as he readies to leave the room, turns right outside the door and waits for Sherlock to finish having his crisis in the room.

"I don't suppose," he says, just barely visible through the open doorway. The tips of his leather shoes and the hem of the bottom of his coat are all John can see from his vantage point where he leans against the wall. "Greg doesn't have to..." he begins.

With a realisation of how things are changing, possibly changing anyway regardless of how the day unfolds, John moves so that Sherlock can see his mouth before responding. It occurs to him briefly that their days of having conversations in bed, in the dark, might be over. Forcing his mind back to the present, he shakes his head. "No. Non-negotiable." John wishes things were different, feels terribly for Sherlock's being backed into a corner, but he knows this is the right path. "Greg must be informed. If you don't, I will."

There is another sigh, though Sherlock tries to muffle it. "What time is the appointment?"

"In a couple of minutes. We've time."

There is a bobbing of Sherlock's throat as he works a swallow, as he frowns slightly at the necessity of pressing on, though ultimately he surrenders. "All right."

John feels the knot at the centre of his chest loosen, relax, give way. What he wants to say - _thank god_ \- he keeps bottled in and instead says nothing.

There in the hallway, which is thankfully empty, they stand toe-to-toe. A myriad of emotion flickers across Sherlock's eyes, his brows, his lips while John watches. The discouragement, the reality and gravity of his situation finally settles in, and one of them, both of them move a bit closer. John's arms come around Sherlock's waist while Sherlock's wrap behind John's shoulders. It is a brief but needed show of support, an I've got your back, thank you for doing this, and neither of us especially want to be here.

The ride in the lift is awkward. The secretary nods to the clipboard, where Sherlock signs in, and a few minutes pass until his name is spoken from the doorway and the receptionist uses one hand to deftly sign the letters of his last name. John settles back in the uncomfortable, plastic waiting room chair while Sherlock rises and crosses the room, back straight. The journal article in front of John swims and blurs, a jumble of letters that perhaps might hold his attention while he waits.

There is a throat clearing that sounds familiar, and John looks up, where the nurse and Sherlock are both looking at him. "Come along?"

John smiles gently as he sets the magazine aside, rises, and follows.

++

Sherlock kneels over the body, seeing something that causes him to urgently stand and point. "The killer may still be in the house," he says to Greg and John, who immediately head that direction. There is a scuffle, a skirmish, and something falls, crashes, and breaks.

Stomping, a warning shout, and a voice from the next room, "Watch out!" and Sherlock dashes toward the doorway, ready to meet the assailant. There is a take-down, another officer arrives immediately, the perp contained, incapacitated, removed.

A few minutes later, and there is a small cluster of various people debriefing about the scene, and Sherlock is delivering rapid-fire scathing remarks about the first responders who failed to secure the home and who neglected the secondary survey. With fond eyes, John watches him stalk about, gesturing, interacting, conversing. It matters not where he is or what direction he is facing. Sherlock had been compensating for a long time, longer than John had realised, gradually finding ways to work around his hearing deficit. It still surprises him that it had taken him so long to figure it out, the gradual decline and auto-compensation occurring on both of their parts without his awareness. And no one else either had known, ever picked up on it, and now it is unlikely at this point that they ever will.

Sherlock had been determined by the doctor, through some extensive testing, to be suffering from two different ear conditions. First, non-permanent conductive hearing loss from both acute and chronic otitis media, which required two separate rounds of antibiotics before it would go away completely, and second, idiopathic sensorineural hearing loss, moderately severe, for which hearing aids were recommended. Since being fitted, he has been wearing bilateral, in-canal devices, almost invisible unless someone was actively looking for them at close range. There is an application on his smart phone that allows him to tweak the sensitivity and directional microphone if needed. They are state-of-the-art gadgets, and once he'd been shown the features - and been reminded that if he wished to continue to be invited to and participate in crime scenes he needed to at least consider them - he had at least been willing to give them a go.

John sees him thriving in his element, his frustration apparent but deeper, a sense of satisfaction and underlying confidence. "I think we're done here, now that I've solved another one for you." Greg is making a few notes but catches John's eye briefly, sensing a change somehow but uncertain to what it may be. John shrugs, smiling, and glances back at Sherlock, who throws up his hands at something else he'd found to fuss about. "I'm sure I'll be hearing from you soon." John represses the grin at Sherlock's word choice, deliberate of course, thrown in because he is nothing if not dramatic.

John falls into place next to him, enjoying the companionable walk back to where they will grab a bite, or find a cab, or simply go home. The smile on Sherlock's face, though, is peaceful and fulfilled. "Brilliant as usual."

Sherlock's radiant smile is worth it. "Yes it was."

John gets the impression without Sherlock saying it that he is talking about more than just the crime scene that evening.

++

The movie drones on a bit, this documentary of Sherlock's choosing more his own style than John's, but there are still moments to enjoy. An evening at home, sock-covered feet comfortably up on the coffee table, empty take-away boxes set on the floor, their mobiles silenced, their night free. 

"You can turn that down," Sherlock says quietly only a few minutes in.

John complies thoughtfully. "Hadn't realised we'd grown accustomed to it that loud."

Sherlock smirks as he turns to find John studying him. "Yes, well." Slowly, he glances back toward the telly, and John smiles at his focus on the movie.

Companionably, Sherlock runs his toe lightly against the edge of John's foot. The deep inhale of John's - _yes, I'm paying attention to you_ \- is followed by another shifting of their knees closer, touching, pressing lightly - _and then later we can, yes?_ the answering twitch, _oh yes._

John is more distracted then, and tucks a stray curl along Sherlock's ear into a less unruly state. "You're impatient tonight," Sherlock chuckles. "We can pause this if you'd like, come back to it after."

"After? I'm fairly certain I'll be falling asleep after."

"True, you are predictable."

John tugs on Sherlock's earlobe as if to remind him that he is not actually always predictable. When Sherlock doesn't respond, he tugs it again, harder.

"Most of the time, anyway." He glances over. "Yes, I remember." A press of the pause button on the remote freezes the movie but neither of them are looking at it any more anyway.

"I just don't want you to underestimate what I'm capable of." A paid job, a kidnapping, coordination of a medical appointment, neither of them mention.

Sherlock smirks, lower on the left corner of his mouth, and says quietly, "I'm not likely to forget." John's fingers come up alongside Sherlock's jaw, angling his head as he can just barely see the flesh coloured tip of the hearing aid. "Have I said thank you lately?"

"Yes. But if you felt the need again," John begins in a whisper but is silenced when Sherlock leans over to press his mouth full over John's, a hand sliding across John's belly to rest possessively along his hip, tugging a bit with firm fingers. His mind derails as Sherlock somehow manages to stretch out overtop him, holding him snugly as his body aligns, back arching, erections pressing, knees slotting. Hard muscle, bony joints, escalating warmth, the heat of a full-body blazes between them.

There is the sound of zippers, deep breaths, and mouths, wet, more kissing until they are both breathing too hard to keep that up for long. "Here?" Sherlock asks, and John answers with his hand and his mouth, with an encouraging humm deep in his chest, as his breathing stutters and his muscles tense in anticipation.

"Yes, close, oh god, please." John's words are quiet, his mouth behind Sherlock's ear, and it is not lost on him that previously, Sherlock would have heard none of it clearly, the vibrations of his speech letting him feel only that there was sound but missing the message, the clarity. Nevertheless, he pulls away slightly, knowing Sherlock no longer needs to read lips but he enjoys the connection of being face to face, being focused, of seeing the warmth in Sherlock's eyes. "You first?" he whispers, dropping his hand and twisting it slightly.

"God yes," he moans back, lost to the sensation and to their mutual pleasures.

++

There is a group on the side of the law watching a group clearly plotting, up to no good, on the side opposite the law, metaphorically and literally. Stalled, Greg is waiting for proper back-up, clearance, and the warrant approval. John knows, however, that he will try to follow all the rules but if it appears they will lose this opportunity, Greg will act anyway. For now, though, they wait.

"God, I wish I could hear what they are saying from here." They are a good distance away, close enough to keep tabs but far enough that nothing is audible.

"Want me to --" one of the officers volunteers.

"No, no closer. They'll bolt."

Sherlock stands tall. "Do you have binoculars in the boot of your squad car?"

Greg shrugs. "Yes, but ..."

"Get them," he orders, extending his palm and impatiently staring.

The officer begins to protest but Greg shushes him and gestures for his wishes to be carried out. Sherlock pans the crowd once the device is in hand, watching the cluster of people from an angle behind Greg mostly, whose back is to the group, trying to remain hidden best he can.

Quietly, Sherlock begins to speak a few phrases. "... jewels hidden in sacks of whole coffee beans ..."  "in the back of the car now, on their way to ... I think he said Amsterdam..."  "... intercept delivery at Barney's coffee-shop, ten tomorrow ..."

"How are you ...?" Greg begins as Sherlock lowers the binoculars. "There's no way, we're too far away ..."

Sherlock shoots him a look. "I read lips."

"Since when?" Greg challenges. He elbows John, questioning, who nods calmly, confidently.

John tries not to hold his breath as Sherlock quickly debates on how to answer. "Since I knew someday it would come in handy." He glares. "Apparently that was today."

There is a frown of confusion on Greg's face, but then his phone buzzes, and reading quickly, he grins. "Approvals all granted, then. Off we go," he says. "You two wait here," he says to John and Sherlock.

The police move in, and Sherlock chuckles. "I think not." John watches them as Sherlock speaks again. "I think our work here is done."

John smiles, shaking his head as Sherlock puts the binoculars in the back seat of the squad car.

"Did you think you can send a few texts, make a few arrangements first? I could use a nice kidnapping on the way home, to break up the monotony of this day."

"You do realise I had to pay for that."

"Pity, I know people who would've done it for a cheap thrill." Sherlock pulls out his mobile. "In fact, I do believe it's _your_ turn."

"For a kidnapping?" John presses. "No."

"While I watch." John's horror is heightened as Sherlock's intrigue deepens. "Maybe. Maybe it's real, maybe not." A bit of palpitations starts in John's chest. "You'll never know, will you?" His voice is quiet, calculating in John's ear.

John shakes his head, not wanting to relive any part of that. "No. Berk." Sherlock stares. _"No,"_ John says again.

Sherlock's eye narrows, but he pockets his mobile. The cool, calculating glance, though, is ominous. John knows without a shadow of a doubt, that the game is most definitely afoot.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback, kudos, comments - all greatly appreciated.
> 
> ++
> 
> Hearing loss can result from an ear infection (otitis media) particularly if untreated or in the case of frequent recurrence. Children are particularly susceptible to frequent otitis media due to the curvature of the eustacian tube in that age group. The eustacian tube drains fluid from the middle ear to the pharynx, and when that becomes blocked, the fluid may become infected. An ear infection is typically quite painful. 
> 
> There are hearing aids that are almost completely hidden inside the ear canal, and some use a smartphone app [ available here](https://www.starkey.com/hearing-aids/made-for-iphone-hearing-aids/receiver-in-canal) that can make adjustments to it. In canal hearing aids are unfortunately not for everyone, but I found it the most humane thing I could do after setting Sherlock up so badly.
> 
> ++
> 
> Disclaimer: I am not an authority on hearing impairments. My interpretation and my own personal research may be slightly different than someone else's personal experience. Please let me know gently if there are glaring errors.


End file.
